Written on 30 December 2013, the theme was "the future", but I decided to vary it slightly...
The Fuchsia
Two pairs of petals, broad and short
Four slender sepals, slender, wrought
In shapes both long and pendulous.
I wonder, would they endure less
Should they not show in blooms so bright:
Red, purple, pink, magenta, white.
See how they strive to keep their blooms
As autumn dies and winter looms;
They brighten up the dullest plot –
Some evergreen, though some are not,
Their leaves in whorls of three to five,
They’re predisposed to stay alive.
Unchallenged, they would never stop
Their hardy growth, and so we chop
Them back to size: they do not care,
Re-growing as if unaware,
Ignoring such minutia.
And so repeats the fuchsia.
Sunday, 18 May 2014
The Future
Written on 31 December 2013 on the theme of "the future".
The Future
It’s easy to be negative.
The future’s when the present ends,
Beyond the time in which we live:
We can’t know what next week portends.
So much on which it all depends,
A fatalist would drift along,
The time-stream’s something that transcends:
What’s right is right, what’s wrong is wrong.
He may be right, how can we know?
But don’t be swayed – uncertainties
Should not detract us, we should grow,
To plan for possibilities,
Assess the probabilities,
To make the best of what can be,
Avoiding life’s absurdities,
The future’s there for you and me.
The Future
It’s easy to be negative.
The future’s when the present ends,
Beyond the time in which we live:
We can’t know what next week portends.
So much on which it all depends,
A fatalist would drift along,
The time-stream’s something that transcends:
What’s right is right, what’s wrong is wrong.
He may be right, how can we know?
But don’t be swayed – uncertainties
Should not detract us, we should grow,
To plan for possibilities,
Assess the probabilities,
To make the best of what can be,
Avoiding life’s absurdities,
The future’s there for you and me.
The World Goes On
I wrote this poem towards the end of December 2013, It originally had three stanzas (1,2,4), but I decided to put it to music and added the third stanza in April 2014. I needed two stanzas for a single verse in the music. The extra text at the end are the words I used for a chorus, although you really need the tune for the relevant rhythm.
The World Goes On
Five hundred and eighty-five million miles:
A long way to go in a year,
But planet earth goes its elliptical way,
Retracing its course as it does ev’ry day,
The passengers carried inside – so blasé,
Ignoring the great atmosphere.
Two thousand and fourteen years now on the clock:
A service is long overdue,
Yet planet earth’s journey’s just goes on and on,
It just goes straight round (that’s an oxymoron) –
Well, it doesn’t care when the fossil fuel’s gone,
It’s never too tired, right on cue.
Remember that others were here long ago
Before we as primates evolved,
But fossils are all that there is we can see
Of life from that time long before you and me:
The dinosaurs wiped out irrelevantly
Whilst planet earth simply revolved.
So here we are now – it’s another new year:
The calendar that we have made.
The world is oblivious to our own flaws,
The starving, intolerance, greed causing wars,
Our choice how we handle these things, mine and yours;
The world just goes on, unallayed.
Extra words for chorus
The world goes on, and on and on
It will continue ev’ry year. To make it clear,
It will go on, after we’re gone.
It will not care that we were here.
The World Goes On
Five hundred and eighty-five million miles:
A long way to go in a year,
But planet earth goes its elliptical way,
Retracing its course as it does ev’ry day,
The passengers carried inside – so blasé,
Ignoring the great atmosphere.
Two thousand and fourteen years now on the clock:
A service is long overdue,
Yet planet earth’s journey’s just goes on and on,
It just goes straight round (that’s an oxymoron) –
Well, it doesn’t care when the fossil fuel’s gone,
It’s never too tired, right on cue.
Remember that others were here long ago
Before we as primates evolved,
But fossils are all that there is we can see
Of life from that time long before you and me:
The dinosaurs wiped out irrelevantly
Whilst planet earth simply revolved.
So here we are now – it’s another new year:
The calendar that we have made.
The world is oblivious to our own flaws,
The starving, intolerance, greed causing wars,
Our choice how we handle these things, mine and yours;
The world just goes on, unallayed.
Extra words for chorus
The world goes on, and on and on
It will continue ev’ry year. To make it clear,
It will go on, after we’re gone.
It will not care that we were here.
The Record
This one was written in October 2013, shortly after I first joined a Creative Writing class. There was an exercise to write a Rhyme Royal to incorporate descriptive writing. Whereas I'd written the odd 'alternative lyric' to songs prior to this, this is really the first poem of note I wrote. (Note I wrote? Get my coat) Cheers, Ashley.
The Record
The touch, the feel of laminated sleeves.
A varied range of artwork comes and goes.
From this, a puff of air each movement leaves
A plastic smell of ink inside my nose.
But then, at last, I see the one that shows
A cursive logo I have sought for years…
The stylus drops; such music to my ears.
Why is it that the feedback feeds my soul?
Why does that bass warm the base of my spine?
No need to be at the Hollywood Bowl –
My eyes are closed but I can see just fine.
And as the singer sings the final line
The music fades – I hear the vinyl hiss –
My thoughts become clear and I reminisce.
The night was cool and the atmosphere hot.
The drizzle raised scent from her golden hair.
Did the weather bother us? Not a jot –
We were so ecstatic just to be there.
We watched as crisp lasers sliced through the air
And the band walked onto the stage once more,
Strapped on their guitars – the final encore.
A Les Paul axe struck the opening chord.
The crowd cheered and clapped in recognition.
The tickets were more than we could afford;
We’d scrimped and we’d saved to gain admission
So as not to miss this fine rendition.
‘Twas then we shared a smile through lashes’ drips
And tasted the jewelled drops on our lips.
Eyes open again, I pick up the sleeve
“Limited pressing”, it says on the top.
Soon, when she gets home, she will not believe
I found the disc in that charity shop
A piece of our past I just could not drop
Recording the time that finally let
Us share our first kiss – our future was set.
The Record
The touch, the feel of laminated sleeves.
A varied range of artwork comes and goes.
From this, a puff of air each movement leaves
A plastic smell of ink inside my nose.
But then, at last, I see the one that shows
A cursive logo I have sought for years…
The stylus drops; such music to my ears.
Why is it that the feedback feeds my soul?
Why does that bass warm the base of my spine?
No need to be at the Hollywood Bowl –
My eyes are closed but I can see just fine.
And as the singer sings the final line
The music fades – I hear the vinyl hiss –
My thoughts become clear and I reminisce.
The night was cool and the atmosphere hot.
The drizzle raised scent from her golden hair.
Did the weather bother us? Not a jot –
We were so ecstatic just to be there.
We watched as crisp lasers sliced through the air
And the band walked onto the stage once more,
Strapped on their guitars – the final encore.
A Les Paul axe struck the opening chord.
The crowd cheered and clapped in recognition.
The tickets were more than we could afford;
We’d scrimped and we’d saved to gain admission
So as not to miss this fine rendition.
‘Twas then we shared a smile through lashes’ drips
And tasted the jewelled drops on our lips.
Eyes open again, I pick up the sleeve
“Limited pressing”, it says on the top.
Soon, when she gets home, she will not believe
I found the disc in that charity shop
A piece of our past I just could not drop
Recording the time that finally let
Us share our first kiss – our future was set.
Overreaction
This poem was written mid January for the theme "The End of The World". Another 'grumpy-old-man reflection on society. Grr. I'll bite the table.
Overreaction
“It’s the end of the world!
I want straight hair, not curled;
My mascara has made my eyes red.
I’ve gained twenty grammes
And you don’t need exams
To see what I’ve got on my head.
If I can’t lose that zit
Then he won’t think I’m fit
An’ he’ll go off with somebody new.
I’ve brought the wrong lippy –
I look like a hippie –
And look: his name’s on my tattoo!”
“Our world’s at its end!
We can never defend
With our goalkeeper in his sick bed.
And as for the ref
Well, he must be deaf –
He ignored what his own linesman said,
Though he should have spied
That their bloke was offside;
The moron is just without reason.
Kick our manager out
For our team’s – without doubt –
In a lower division next season.”
It’s an overused phrase
Used for every malaise:
The “end of the world” for all maladies.
One could be excused
If the phrase was abused
Purely for personal tragedies,
But this overreaction
Is just a distraction
Diluting the meaning for fun.
Unless this is evidence
Society’s decadence?
The end of the world has begun.
Overreaction
“It’s the end of the world!
I want straight hair, not curled;
My mascara has made my eyes red.
I’ve gained twenty grammes
And you don’t need exams
To see what I’ve got on my head.
If I can’t lose that zit
Then he won’t think I’m fit
An’ he’ll go off with somebody new.
I’ve brought the wrong lippy –
I look like a hippie –
And look: his name’s on my tattoo!”
“Our world’s at its end!
We can never defend
With our goalkeeper in his sick bed.
And as for the ref
Well, he must be deaf –
He ignored what his own linesman said,
Though he should have spied
That their bloke was offside;
The moron is just without reason.
Kick our manager out
For our team’s – without doubt –
In a lower division next season.”
It’s an overused phrase
Used for every malaise:
The “end of the world” for all maladies.
One could be excused
If the phrase was abused
Purely for personal tragedies,
But this overreaction
Is just a distraction
Diluting the meaning for fun.
Unless this is evidence
Society’s decadence?
The end of the world has begun.
Monday, 12 May 2014
The Same Old Road
I wrote the following poem when provided with a poetic theme of "Roads". Cynical? Maybe. It might simply be a symptom of age. And experience...
The Same Old Road
Haven’t you heard? Haven’t you heard?
Election Day is coming soon:
At last the candidates have stirred
Themselves and leaflets have been strewn.
Yes. Countless leaflets through the post
From parties red, green, yellow, blue,
Repeating that familiar boast:
A road to futures bright and new.
The same old road, the same old road.
That’s not the way we want to go.
The rhetoric that they offload,
The plastic faces that they show,
Pretending that they really care,
They all show diff’rent shades of grey,
Not bright at all, so think: is there
Another option we can weigh?
Is there a way? Is there a way?
I wish I knew. I really do.
To win, a party has to sway
The floating voters for a coup,
Convince the unsure and insane,
Convince them that they’ll keep their word,
To drive like cattle down the lane.
Avenue herd. Avenue herd.
The Same Old Road
Haven’t you heard? Haven’t you heard?
Election Day is coming soon:
At last the candidates have stirred
Themselves and leaflets have been strewn.
Yes. Countless leaflets through the post
From parties red, green, yellow, blue,
Repeating that familiar boast:
A road to futures bright and new.
The same old road, the same old road.
That’s not the way we want to go.
The rhetoric that they offload,
The plastic faces that they show,
Pretending that they really care,
They all show diff’rent shades of grey,
Not bright at all, so think: is there
Another option we can weigh?
Is there a way? Is there a way?
I wish I knew. I really do.
To win, a party has to sway
The floating voters for a coup,
Convince the unsure and insane,
Convince them that they’ll keep their word,
To drive like cattle down the lane.
Avenue herd. Avenue herd.
Sunday, 4 May 2014
Platitudes
Written for "A Poetry Show" where the featured poet is Sylvia Plath (broadcast 10 May 2014). Initially.
Platitudes
Something will turn up; it’s later than you think.
You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it drink.
– Look on the bright side, it’s darkest ’fore the dawn.
Vultures are circling. ‘Doesn’t know he’s born.
It could – be – worse; they are that way at sea,
At least the pain is over. It wasn’t meant to be.
Patience is a virtue; all comes to he who waits.
Let it all slide off your back. At least you’ve got some mates.
A dime a dozen; all the same; seen one, you’ve seen them all.
Tomorrow is another day. Give thanks for mercies small.
His bark is far worse than his bite. Let sleeping dogs lie still.
Practice makes things perfect, though no-one’s got that skill.
Others go through this each day; don’t think that you’re alone.
Ev’ry cloud’s a silver lining. Don’t fear the unknown.
Maybe your heart’s not in the task. These things are heaven-sent.
Show gratitude? Each platitude: no help, but most well-meant.
Platitudes
Something will turn up; it’s later than you think.
You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make it drink.
– Look on the bright side, it’s darkest ’fore the dawn.
Vultures are circling. ‘Doesn’t know he’s born.
It could – be – worse; they are that way at sea,
At least the pain is over. It wasn’t meant to be.
Patience is a virtue; all comes to he who waits.
Let it all slide off your back. At least you’ve got some mates.
A dime a dozen; all the same; seen one, you’ve seen them all.
Tomorrow is another day. Give thanks for mercies small.
His bark is far worse than his bite. Let sleeping dogs lie still.
Practice makes things perfect, though no-one’s got that skill.
Others go through this each day; don’t think that you’re alone.
Ev’ry cloud’s a silver lining. Don’t fear the unknown.
Maybe your heart’s not in the task. These things are heaven-sent.
Show gratitude? Each platitude: no help, but most well-meant.
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